The hand holds the scalpel and rummages through the innards, scrapes the bones, and feverishly continues the search. They removed everything they could think of from the vehicle. I laugh at them with a Cheshire grin. I checked "I donate my body to science" on the file. I managed to crack the code, to change it, and the pre-selected tick went away. The checkbox is empty. I sent my body to a safe place that way a long time ago. Only you have the key, and you'll remember enough for the both of us. We managed to snatch a few magnolia blooms from Chronos and bring them as an offering to Kairos.
Elia Ghinescu
Each Sunday, after service, when I go to water the roots that keep my tomorrow locked in a crypt, someone else breathes life into me from beneath the rocks. On the way, I have no words to say at the shrines, I can no longer wholly worship the name of anything that shares a being with the Father. I take the sign of the cross from beneath my skin. With half of a coat I cover half of my heart. Too late for every Sunday. Someone else lives in my home beneath the rocks. Meanwhile, I remain in seeds, without solid, among the rocks I make sure won't grow.
Ana-Maria Butuza
Mister Geo was a biology teacher, with a passion for dissection. Frogs, mice, and any other creature brought by the little ones, who would watch with their mouth agape as the teacher told them about each and every organ. After he saw his children settle down and buried his wife, Mister Geo sold his house and wandered the world. That was his last dream. When the money ran dry, he sat down on a park bench, wrote his will, through which he donated his body to science, and then closed his eyes.
(Translated by Adriana-Maria Botea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.